


Life of Death: The Second Promise

by Rurikredwolf



Series: The Second Promise [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Death, Drama, Fantasy, Gen, Horror, LifeofDeath, Mystery, Reaper - Freeform, dragon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-04 11:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18342659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rurikredwolf/pseuds/Rurikredwolf
Summary: After another normal day of magic training, Kyrik, a young dragon, finds himself in the middle of a murder mystery. Yet, a murder has not occurred in the city of Falmari in ages. Due to his naivety, Kyrik is not allowed to help, but the reaper consciousness he was 'gifted' has other plans. Right as he is about to launch his own investigation, a being falls from the sky and crashes before of him...





	1. Rule of Three

A flare of pink and white rocketed across the room like a meteor against a starry sky. Its target, a stoney structure, reflected the attack and sent it crashing to the ground. Around the stone, a blue barrier flickered before turning invisible once more.

“You almost got it.” A hissing, yet encouraging, voice broke the silence.

On two legs and wearing a thin protective suit, the owner of the voice quietly stepped over to the caster. A shriker, the being was called. Angular and sharp, especially in the facial area where their snouts ended in a narrow tip, their amphibious nature required them to wear a suit above ground. So long as most of their body was kept moist or otherwise protected, the helmet could be taken off safely and allowed her long black fins to extend.

She bent down, purple-skinned face offering a kind smile to the caster, a dragon. He was much smaller than her in height, head only coming up to her chest, but walked on four legs. Cousin species, the two were. Dragons were covered in scales, heads crowned with horns as well as possessing wings. The biggest similarities were the tails, sharp talons and fins that ran down their backs and tail.

“How in the world do you do that, Methir?” The caster asked breathlessly, shaking in his cream scales. Protofeathers, beige in color, bristled from stress. Peridot eyes widened in frustration, mocha-tipped tail blade jabbing at the crystalline ground.

“Focus and willpower.” Methir answered simply, encouragement gleaming in her orange eyes. “I know you can do it, Kyrik.”

“I know I can too, but it doesn’t make it any easier to accomplish.” Kyrik grumbled, face contorted in a hint of anger. Not that Methir could tell, as it was covered by a skull mask, something he never took off in public.

“If life was easy, it wouldn’t be worth it.” Methir shrugged, the clear crystalline spikes on her shoulders bending to avoid her neck.

“Well, we wouldn’t know different, would we? I mean, for all we know, this is the easier life.”

“Rhetorical phrase, Kyrik.” Methir rolled her eyes with an exasperated smile.

“Still a valid question…” Kyrik mumbled. “Alright, I’m ready to try again.”

Kyrik stood on hind legs, his silvery chain necklace clicking softly. At the base, a sickle-shaped ornament that glimmered in the overhead lights.

“Remember, you need to draw the arcane from the air around you and amplify it with your mind.” Methir stepped away to give him space. “Feel the barrier around the target; assess its strength. You need to match or surpass it.”

“I know.” Kyrik nodded slowly, pink and white glowing in his palms. His eyes shut in focus, drawing at the arcane in the air.

Magic – or Arcane, as it’s often referred to by spellcasters – was very much a tangible presence in the world. Like air or other forces, it was all around. Every being breathed it, even the plants and the smallest of animals. Anyone with the willpower and focus could manipulate it, but it took time. Dedication. An understanding of the three steps of casting.

First was that the world naturally created arcane energies. The second was mastering a form of augmented sight; Arcane Vision. Through it, the arcane appeared as text or runes, and it was a matter of combining them together. Some even described them as numbers; it varied from individual to individual. Rule three was weaving them together to create a spell.

Kyrik no longer needed Arcane Vision, able to sense the ‘runes’, as they appeared to him. The ethereal forces became solid in his palms, connecting in a line as a ball appeared in the center. In Kyrik’s mind, he pictured the ball getting bigger and stronger, and at his command it did so.

“Think of it as a plant.” Methir spoke. “Nurture it. Give it what it needs to grow, don’t force it.”

The arcane orb intensified, turning starry as it swirled and churned around itself. Kyrik felt his will being tugged with each rotation, straining as if a physical action. But he couldn’t give up; not until it matched the barrier. A few more seconds and it would.

Opening his eyes, Kyrik found the orb to be as big as his head, the biggest he’d never made it. A small grin of satisfaction crossed his lips. Like pushing an object, Kyrik threw his arms out and expelled the spell.

It rocketed in a streak of pink and white, striking the barrier with a dwompf! The barrier flickered, holding back the spell, but it gave way and shattered into tiny shards that evaporated. The stone was struck, the concussive energies not damaging the surface but instead flinging it backward where it collided with the ground.

Kyrik fell upon seeing his spell strike home, exhaustion clinging to him like a veil. Methir was there to catch his fall, using herself for support.

“I told you.” Methir said with pride. “I knew you could do it once you knew how.”

“I don’t think I can cast another spell like that today.” Kyrik muttered.

“Well, that was a tier four arcane blast.” Methir waved her claw in the air, a pitcher of water appearing. Kyrik snatched it almost immediately. “I don’t expect you to get it so soon after mastering tier three.”

“I know. Just wish it was as easy as casting necromantic magics.”

Methir frowned, something she tended to do when deep in thought. “I know. But you must learn other magics, as someone can easily counter you if you know just one type of spell.”

“I get that, but I don’t understand why I can’t really practice it. We have a dark arts section in Falmari.”

“I’ve been learning it myself to teach you.” Methir said. “But Jirmen does not allow it to go too far. I know you understand the reason.”

“I do, but I can’t help but feel redirected constantly.” Kyrik pouted, cheeks puffing slightly.

“Hmm,” Methir eyed him, still in thought. “Well…he’s not here. No one is. I don’t see any reason for you to not practice low level ones, see if you can amplify them.”

Kyrik bolted to all fours, a sudden surge of energy erupting from within. He said not a word, beaming at her with his wide eyes.

Methir knew it to be a risk to practice necromantic arts – or dark arts in general – in public, but this training area was on the edge of Falmari, the city where they resided. Being about noon, most of the other students were still in class. Not Kyrik, though. He was, according to the Archmage and Methir, a ‘special’ case. One on one was a better teaching method.

As a result, he was allowed sneaky little getaways to practice what he felt his true calling.

“Alright, I redid the barrier.” Methir announced. “I want you to burst it with a Necrotic Bolt.”

A Necrobolt, huh? Simple enough, and Kyrik’s go-to spell whenever he was in trouble. It would decay objects, making them brittle and, well, causing necrotic tissue. Easily curable with any grade two spell depending on the damage, and Kyrik never went to kill.

Much like charging the Arcane Blast, it came from his inner willpower and charging the arcane around him. Unlike it, he was shifting the runes into a new shape, creating something akin to a word with them. Kyrik fixated on the words ‘necrotic’ and ‘decay’ whilst charging, and a sphere of sickly green light formed between his palms.

Fwoosh, it burst forth as an ichor-like substance, dripping as it went along. When it crashed, it splattered against the barrier, causing it to fritz and turn off as the spell attacked all around rather than a single projectile impact.

“You weren’t kidding.” Methir mused. “That was grade four and you cast it much faster. Have you been practicing in private?”

“No, but I just…feel it.” Kyrik shrugged. “It probably has to do with having reaper powers.”

This was another reason why Kyrik was largely segregated from the other students his age. The darker parts of his mind and soul, although largely contained, were a threat. The skull mask acted as…well, a mask, keeping his powers subdued until he could ‘grow into them’. When that was, Kyrik didn’t know. But the darker arts, such as over life and death, came incredibly natural to him. It was his nature, even if the means of acquiring the powers were not.

“Most likely.” Methir nodded. “Admittedly, I do and don’t understand why he doesn’t allow us training, but there isn’t any reason why we can’t go elsewhere.”

“I hope he doesn’t think I plan on detonating a town.” Kyrik fidgeted anxiously.

“I don’t think anyone thinks that, Muffin.”

Kyrik felt a slow smile form at the nickname. Only she called him that, a way of showing how much she cared. It didn’t help that he really loved muffins.

“Still, I think we did enough offensive training for today.” Methir clapped her palms together, sending the training stones onto a shelf on the far side of the room. “We need to practice that prismatic armor.”

“Oh.”

“I know you hate it, but you have to learn it. But I need to go grab something really quick, so take the time to rest.”

Kyrik watched her go, the doors leading to the training area opening at her presence. Kyrik pouted again, but he knew her to be right. For all his offensive spells, he seriously needed to learn some defensive. Sure, he could conjure wards and reflections, but those only worked against spells. If someone came after him with a mallet, he was getting punted across the room.

Creating prismatic armor involved similar casting, but instead of projecting it outward, he swirled the arcane around him. Multiplying the runes until they swirled and shaped sounded easier than it was, as more runes made it harder to control. When they spun around him like a protective cocoon, Kyrik felt the strain in his very bones. Faster and faster like gusting wind, a pink barrier appeared over his scales.

Right as it was coming into shape, a small crack echoed and Kyrik fell to the side, panting.

It wasn’t like offense, where it came from supercharging a rune. Creating multiple simply strained his mind; an easy explanation, but not one Kyrik could fix. Not immediately, anyway.

A presence brushed against his mind, a dark suggestion. Not necessarily malefic or of any ill intent, but one he never liked. It was an intrusive thought, one he never liked to hear. Like another part of himself.

To use his darker arts as a protective barrier instead of a prismatic one. But to do that, he’d have to give into his powers a bit. And if he were to slip control…no, the risks were too great.

“Besides, what if someone counters it?” Kyrik asked the air. The presence didn’t reply. “Thought so.”

Kyrik sat for ten minutes, waiting for Methir. It wasn’t like her to keep him waiting. Reaching out telepathically, he found himself blocked. Not by her, but by something else. It wasn’t the presence from before, either.

Retracting the projection, he heard distant bells. Slow and tolling, like at a funeral. Kyrik’s two hearts – natural among dragons – beat faster. He knew what they meant, and it was never a good sign. Getting to all fours, the bells sounded stronger and closer. Almost from right outside, in the alley.

Kyrik fiddled with the silver chain necklace around his neck, grasping the sickle-shape pendant dangling from it. It’d been a while since he had to reap someone, especially in Falmari.

The sunlight blinded Kyrik upon exiting, the reflective tops of nearby white towers directing it into his face. If only he had a spell to counter it! Luckily, he didn’t have to stay out for long, the warm iridescent ground already starting to hurt his claws. How strange; wards usually protected against both sunlight and the ground being scorching hot. Being in a desert, they were all but mandatory!

Rounding the corner into a darker alley, Kyrik stopped, eyes widening in horror. Mouth agape, he stood like an imp in a trapping rune. The bells all but drowned out the distant noises of Falmari, Kyrik now recognizing them to be ringing in warning, and for good reason.

There, laying before him, was a young dragon, maybe a bit older than Kyrik. Underneath his green scales, a growing pool of his own blood stained the ground. Protruding from his back, a sharp bone from some sort of animal. Kyrik slowly approached, hearts thumping. Sending out a probe, he found no one else nearby.

Kyrik was no stranger to death. He rarely went a month without seeing someone near death or recently so, being attracted to them if nearby. The reaper powers he possessed acted as both a curse and a boon, as there was a chance he’d be able to save someone if he got there in time. But there was no saving this dragon.

It wasn’t the helplessness Kyrik felt over the situation that bothered him, though. It was a far greater concern:

Someone, somehow, was murdered in Falmari, the biggest magical city on Fatea with the strongest protective wards.


	2. Spirited Away

The next few minutes felt like a blur to Kyrik. Panic set in almost immediately, to the point where he wasn’t aware he’d stopped breathing until his lungs nearly exploded.

A murder, in Falmari!? Impossible!

The instant he regained his mind, he tried to call Methir, only to be blocked again. Hearts thumping still, he reached for the only other he had direct contact with; the archmage himself. After a few seconds, they telepathically connected.

_“Kyrik, I am in the middle of-”_ An older – yet somehow youthful - voice answered with some annoyance before Kyrik cut him off.

_“Someone’s been murdered, Jirmen!”_ Kyrik practically shouted in his mind.

_“Impossible. The wards prevent murderous intent.”_ Jirmen answered with doubt.

_“Then tell me why I’m standing over a body with a bone embedded into the spine!”_

_“I will be there in a second.”_ Jirmen’s tone changed from faint annoyance to one of urgency.

_Crack!_ A flash of white appeared behind Kyrik and from it came a bipedal figure not unlike a shriker. Unlike them, he was canine in species with long black ears, brown fur, and a tail that had the end cut off. A lycon, a nearly extinct race as of five years ago. In his right gold-plated gauntlet, he gripped a long, bronze staff with a shimmering orb at the tip.

“Impossible.” Jirmen stomped up to the body, white robes and cape billowing from his rapid movements. “How did this happen?”

“I don’t know.” Kyrik answered nervously as Jirmen cast an anhk into the air that dispersed invisibly; an illusionary spell that would mask their presence as well as the body. “What are we going to do?”

Jirmen remained quiet, blue eyes locked onto the orb as his greying muzzle contorted in anger and bafflement. Raising his staff, a blue ankh burst forth and created a dome to shield outside eyes from spotting the bodies.

“I need to check the wards again.” Jirmen said. “Something must have drained them.”

“I can call the spirit.” Kyrik suggested. “I think it’s still inside; maybe it’ll help?”

“Do it.”

Nodding, Kyrik stood on hind legs again, this time projecting his will outward into the body. There, he met another, rapidly fading. Anger and confusion ravaged the spirit, and if Kyrik didn’t subdue it quickly, there was a chance of becoming a revenant.

With a gentle coax, Kyrik sent his intentions to the spirit, who became receptive once clarity took over.

Above the body, a ghostly apparition of the dragon appeared. His expression was identical to the emotions he felt, although much more subdued. Defeated. Accepting of his fate already with a hint of both sadness and relief.

“I’m dead.” The dragon said with an echo. “Aren’t I?”

“Unfortunately.” Kyrik winced. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t…funny how when you think of dying, it seems fine, but when it happens…” He turned his gaze to Jirmen, who kept one eye on the spirit and another on a rune that he rotated with his palm. “Bit late to check the wards.” He said with dark humor.

“This is going to be the last death anyone has here.” Jirmen answered distractedly. “What happened?”

“Not sure. I overslept after draining myself practicing last night. Had to drag myself out of bed and couldn’t even fly I was so tired. Next thing I know, I’m on the ground. I didn’t even feel the attack. I just knew I was trapped in my body.”

Jirmen pointed his staff at the bone, runes appearing over the orb. “I see.” His brow furrowed.

“The bone trapped the spirit, didn’t it?” Kyrik asked.

“Yes.” Jirmen confirmed slowly.

“The skill required to do that…” Kyrik muttered to himself. “Is there a trace to the spell?”

“None. Whoever did this covered their tracks well.”

“I didn’t even see a shadow.” The dragon said. “Besides, dragons aren’t easy to backstab.” A quietness fell over him. “What are my parents going to think? I…never really thought of it before, not when…this is wrong. This wasn’t what I expected. This wasn’t what I wanted.”

“It was thrown.” Jirmen stiffened, ignoring the admission of the dragon. “That is the only way it could’ve lodged in your spine.”

“I drank a lot to ease my personal pain. But now that I am dead, there is just…I don’t…it doesn’t feel real.” The dragon continued mournfully. Kyrik struggled to keep him on track, the connection between the two already destabilizing as the realization of death crept in. “To be stabbed in the back by someone who couldn’t even be bothered to approach me…”

“I’m sorry.” Kyrik murmured. “The best I can do is send you to the afterlife, where you’ll be at peace. What’s your name?”

“Never thought it’d be me who’d be sent away.” The dragon said. “I don’t know if it’ll help, but I’m a necromancy student. My name is…was…Tarith.”

“I’m sure it will, Tarith. But, before you go, I must ask if you had anyone who may want to hurt you.”

“No one that could break the wards. If anything, it was friendly competition. Was with my ‘arch rival’ when I was drinking.”

“Anything else?”

“No, I kept to myself and didn’t really wander, not that Falmari has a bad side.”

With nothing else to gain, Tarith gave his consent and Kyrik created the action of opening a door or gate with his claws. Behind the dragon, a portal opened. The dragon blinked in shock, staring back at Kyrik with recognition.

“You’re a reaper.” Tarith said in awe. “No one else can open direct portals.”

“Half right.” Kyrik smirked.

“I thought your kind vanished.” The dragon said blankly before fading into the portal. “Thank you.”

The portal snapped shut, leaving Kyrik alone with Jirmen.

“Would it kill you to show sympathy?” Kyrik asked lowly.

“If I stop to mourn, someone else may die.” Jirmen answered distractedly. “I will do so after. For now, we must keep this under wraps.”

“What in the world?” Methir jogged over to them, horror on her face at the sight of the body.

“Where were you?” Jirmen regarded her not coldly, but certainly not as kind as Kyrik would’ve liked.

“I went to go get some training turrets, but someone moved them to another district. Took me much longer than I hoped.”

“I tried contacting you, but you were blocked.” Kyrik said with worry.

“I didn’t put up a ward.” Methir regarded the body with interest, specifically the bone. “Did you already call the Warlocks?”

“I did. But I need you to take Kyrik away from here.”

“What, why?!” Kyrik whipped his head so fast to Jirmen he thought his mask would fly off. “Without me, you wouldn’t be able to talk to the spirit!”

“And whatever did this drained the wards so strongly that the attack not only was able to bypass, but was strengthened by them.” Jirmen responded with calm authority. “I am not having you be a target.”

“You know I can help you, though!”

“And that is true, but you are far too young to be in the sights of a murderer.”

“That is a bad excuse! You know what I am!”

“I’m not arguing the point any further, Kyrik.” Jirmen said with finality. “Methir, please.”

Kyrik vibrated in agitation, huffing at being shoved to the side because of whatever reason came up. First was his lack of social integration, then his darker powers, and now his age. It was like no one except Methir knew what to do with him!

Given Jirmen’s intent when they first met, it made sense.

Kyrik snapped around and began walking away. If Jirmen thought he was going to sit this one out, he had another thing coming. He was tainted by death itself; Kyrik had seen far more bodies than anyone else his age.

But until he could wiggle in again, the most he could do was leave.

***

“Age? Really, Jirmen?” Methir asked with a raised brow.

“He is not ready to tackle such a situation.” Jirmen answered as two dragons showed, dressed in warding cloaks and runed armor. Warlocks, the guardians of Falmari. Trained in both physical and magical combat, they would be more than a match for most foes.

“I was your apprentice for thirty years, I know when you lie.” Methir folded her arms. “It’s been five years, Jirmen; I think that he’s proved his benign intentions.”

“I have no concern about his intentions; his emotions, on the other claw...” Jirmen dismissed the rune in his palm. “You seem to forget what will happen if he loses control.”

“Is that why you stifle his growth?”

“The less he knows about the darker arts, the less chance he has to learn unfortunate truths.”

Methir scowled deeply, tapping her talon on her suit. “Jirmen, do you know what UPR is?”

“Should I?”

“Universal Positive Regard.” Methir explained with a hiss. “Kyrik is in desperate need of that, especially from you.”

“I can’t praise someone continuously, Methir.”

“You miss the point, Jirmen.” Methir rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to kiss his ass or pander to him, but you have to support him. The poor drake has been carrying crushing guilt for five years and you regard him with coldness half the time! You’re slamming the door on him!”

“I’m not slamming the door, Methir.”

“Perhaps not, but you are certainly shutting him out. You are the only other one who knows what he really is, and if you aren’t going to open at least a tiny bit, he will shut you out like Magthra. And if something were to happen to me, he’ll latch onto the nearest one who shows him positivity. Imagine if Azulia were to catch wind of this.”

Jirmen stared unwaveringly. “Perhaps…you are accurate.” He turned away slightly.

“You two are basically in the same boat. Use that as common ground.” Methir turned to chase after Kyrik. “I mean it. If something happens to me, you are all he has left.”

***

Kyrik sat upon the edge of a tall golden tower, looking out over Falmari. While not the tallest building, it was by far the most frequent place he went due to it being a library. Stories upon stories – in both senses – made it able to accommodate hundreds of the thousands who lived here.

Unlike many of the buildings here, the design of the library was lyconic in design, one of the few remaining pieces of their race. A sole pillar made the length with multiple open, branching paths leading to different studies and sections of the library. Shimmering portals acted as easy access between the floors, although staircases did exist in the instance of an outage.

Despite being predominately golden, bronze made most of the walkways and balconies such as the one Kyrik resided upon. Behind him, a floating globe of arcane zapped at any spec of dust. The curator of the library, a djinn named Aquar, created them to keep the place spotless. Kyrik considered himself lucky the djinn was on a lower level, not wanting to run into the four-armed floating creature lest she go off on another tangent and throw another book because he didn’t immediately know the difference between daemon and demon.

Despite the murder, Falmari looked as pristine as ever. The iridescent buildings made from different materials refracted a rainbow along the roofs from the angle of the sun. From here, Falmari was still a bastion of magical wonder. From here, it was like nothing was wrong. Yet despite the rooftops churning like rainbows under the setting sun, Kyrik felt a darkness growing in the heart. The bright surface was masking a shadow below, one Kyrik couldn’t trace.

His thoughts cut off when a mocha muffin was shoved in front of his face.

“How’d you know I was here?” Kyrik took the muffin from Methir’s palm.

“When you get in a mood, this is the one of two places you go.” Methir sat beside him as he took a bite out of the muffin. He could tell immediately it was from Izenth’s, a small bakery a few blocks away. Unlike many, the owner cooked traditionally, not using magic. Perhaps that was why Kyrik adored the food so much.

“I suppose that’s true.” Kyrik shrugged. “The whole age thing is dumb.”

“I agree, and I told him this.” Methir dangled a leg off the side, the other bent. Although she was by no means old, she looked considerably younger in this pose. “Believe it or not, Jirmen does care.”

“I know he does but he has a funny way of showing it.” Kyrik pouted through the muffin. “He wasn’t always like this, was he?”

“He’s always been distant but the past five years has…made him colder.” Methir turned her gaze skyward in thought. “I would say give him time, but it’s been five years.”

“I know he lost Aurgal and Aura, but…”

Kyrik knew very little of the twins that associated with Jirmen. Back before the Seraph, Ephiral, fell from the skies and burned the lycon homeland of Bryzio to a volcanic wasteland, they worked together in capturing magical artifacts. Jirmen usually had to remain behind to run Falmari, but the twins, being demigods, could go back and forth. When they perished to stop Ephiral, it was only a week before Kyrik was thrown into their life.

“It was a bit more than that.” Methir said with a hint of reluctance. “I can’t speak for Jirmen, but he raised them almost like his own. Their father vanished and mother couldn’t take care of them on her own. When they died, it was like losing his family.”

“I…see.” Kyrik fidgeted. He didn’t know why it never crossed his mind to think of that.

“He just doesn’t want to suffer that pain again, but you’re going through your own. He is trying. I just think something needs to punt him toward you.”

“Maybe.” Kyrik’s tail flicked. “I just wish he was as around as you are. I know he’s running a city and all but…you have a life.”

“Oh please, I can leave you alone in a library and you’d never know I was gone.” Methir lightly slapped him on the shoulder. Kyrik smiled slightly. “Still, you are right. But I can’t complain; you certainly keep it interesting.”

“Define.”

“I can’t, that’s the best part.” Methir grinned widely. “But, I do want you to keep your distance from this. For now. This murderer may have been watching and saw your powers despite the illusion spell.”

“Then they should be afraid. Nobody hurts anyone under my watch.” Kyrik puffed his chest.

“Kyrik, remember the promises you made.” Methir reminded gently.

“I never forget them. But I can’t let anyone get hurt when I can do something about it.”

“I know, but you can’t do everything.”

“But I should be able to. I’ve been infused with reaper powers, and they’re guardians of life. I should be the same.”

“Death happens, Kyrik. Sometimes, you can’t stop it. Don’t punish yourself for not being everywhere at once.” Methir placed her palm on his back. “Tell you what, I need to go get some Ghost Tears in a bit. Why don’t you come with me?”

“I suppose.” Kyrik finished the muffin. He both loved and hated how it made him want to immediately grab another after eating. “I do need the exercise; I missed my flights the past few days.”

“I think if you get any thinner, we’ll start seeing ribs.” Methir jested. “Alright, meet me in the Magus Tower in ten minutes; I need to grab the harvesting tools.”


End file.
